


When All Seems Lost

by mrdcoolblue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Stiles, Betrayal, Dragon Rider Stiles Stilinski, Elf Jackson, Elf Lydia, Eragon AU, Escape, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Stiles's Dragon Is Named Roscoe, dragon rider au, dragon rider derek, inheritance cycle au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrdcoolblue/pseuds/mrdcoolblue
Summary: It was supposed to be a straightforward rescue mission, but then everything Stiles thought he knew was turned on its head. He thought Derek had been captured and killed months ago. He thought his heart would never hurt again.A Sterek dragon rider AU à la The Inheritance Cycle.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 7
Kudos: 97





	When All Seems Lost

When Stiles woke up, he thanked whatever deities he could think of that there were no chains. Just the small, dingy cell he’d expected anyway.

The first thing he did was stretch out his sore joints and take stock of his situation. The king’s soldiers, as gracious hosts as they were, had dumped him on the cold stone floor less than two feet from a perfectly serviceable cold stone bench. A quick glance at the barred window high up on the wall showed streaming sunlight. Either he’d only been knocked out a few hours and it was late afternoon, or the thump on his head had been more serious than he thought and it was already the next morning.

Stiles gingerly fingered the bruise on his temple. No dent, so that was great, but also minimal swelling, so maybe he hadn’t been out too long. His head didn’t feel right though. It wasn’t fuzzy, per se. It could be the beginnings of a concussion, but it was more like a buzzing stillness, like something was missing.

He tried to summon a small spell, _brisingr_ or something, but when nothing happened he swore under his breath. 

He’d been dosed while he was out, so until the drugs wore off, he was without his magic. Which meant he couldn’t communicate with Roz. The soldiers had already relieved him of his bow and dagger. And Scott was holding his sword when they’d been attacked. So where did that leave Stiles? With nothing but his hands and his wits.

Stiles figured it was time to get his bearings and come up with a plan of escape. He pushed himself to his feet and went to the window high up in the wall. It took a small jump before he could pull himself up high enough to look out, dangling by his bent arms. All he could see were gravel paths, stone walls, and soldiers’ boots. He was certainly inside the inner wall of the fortress. He could barely see the sky, and there certainly were no trees or animals or any other kind of nature inside this military city.

Only the best for the high-profile prisoners.

Unable to dangle from the tall window any longer, Stiles let himself drop down and consider the only other view out of his cell: the small window carved into the heavy iron door. Peering through this, the hallway outside was dim in comparison, only lit by braziers attached to the walls. 

The other heavy, barred doors lining the hallways confirmed his suspicions that he’d been placed in the prison block. He didn’t hear anything from any of the cells. And he didn’t see any guards stationed nearby, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

“Hey,” Stiles whispered into the darkness. “Anybody there?”

“Shut up,” somebody grumbled. Yep, they were there. It sounded close too, like they were standing right outside his cell door, where the angle was too sharp to see out of the tiny window. Time for Stiles to use his gift of gab for something useful.

“You see,” Stiles went on, now at a normal volume, “I think there’s been a mistake here. I’m supposed to be a class C political prisoner. The security level is the same, but we get better food.”

“You didn’t get food,” the voice snapped.

“Some food would be better than no food.”

“You better be quiet, or else.”

“Or else what?” Stiles shot back. “You beat me up? I’ve already been thumped once, and how fair a fight is it if you won’t let me have a weapon? I see you soldier types are just as cowardly as ever.”

“Shut it!” 

“What’s next? You going to pick a fight with an old goat? What about a toddler? I think my gran might be more your speed, and she’s dead.”

“That’s it!” the voice growled, and with a smug smile Stiles heard the jingle of keys in the lock of the cell door. “Maybe some cracked ribs will teach a skinny punk like you the proper respect.”

The door swung inwards, but Stiles didn’t give the guard any time to prepare. Crouched low, where the guard wouldn’t expect him to be, he shot a sharp and powerful jab straight to the man’s unarmored groin. It’s not pretty, but as Deaton always said, there’s no fair play in life-or-death situations.

As soon as the guy fell to his knees with a high-pitched squeal, Stiles promptly removed his helmet and bashed his head with it. The guard crumpled to the ground, passed out.

Stiles couldn’t be sure that this was the soldier who knocked him out, but he felt a small satisfaction in returning the favor for his own head wound.

Stiles paused for a second, waiting for the commotion to summon more guards, but nothing happened. The guy must have been on Stiles duty by himself. If it weren’t so convenient, he’d be miffed that they obviously underestimated him. He was totally capable, even without Roscolyn’s scaly awesomeness.

He took the guard’s sword, dagger, and keys then dragged the man’s unconscious body all the way into the cell and locked him in.

When he emerged into the hallway, he immediately froze, thinking he saw the silhouette of another guard. But instead, it was an armor stand, no threat at all. His heart could start beating at a normal tempo now, please.

This whole escape business was proving suspiciously easy. Now that Stiles had made it out of his little cell, the next step on the list was to . . . search each one of the dozen or so other cells and hope that this was the only prison in the place. He wasn’t sure he was up to fighting his way across the fortress with few weapons and no backup. And no magic.

Unwilling to wait until another guard came in to check on the one he’d incapacitated, Stiles immediately went to the first cell door next to his. He peered inside the little viewing window, but this one was completely dark inside with no window to the outside.

Apparently he had rated one of the nicer cells in the joint. 

He couldn’t tell if this cell was occupied, so he called out a cautious, “Lydia? Are you in here?”

There was no reply, but he thought he heard a small shuffle of movement inside. Not even thinking that finding another enemy was an option, Stiles unlocked and opened the door, letting the dim light from the hallway braziers pool inside the dark cell.

The figure inside was not the red-headed elf he was looking for, but the sharp cheekbones and light-brown hair that annoyingly never lost its luster even after weeks of captivity were almost as familiar to Stiles. 

Jackson sat up straighter against the back wall. “About time you showed up, Stilinski.”

Stiles surged into the room and immediately started fitting keys into the manacles around Jackson’s wrists. “Yeah, yeah, I got here as fast as I could, pitiful human that I am.”

“An elfin Rider would have showed up sooner,” Jackson agreed, but it lacked his usual bite. 

Stiles let it go. It was an old argument between them, one that used to be a strong source of bitterness. Even prideful Jackson had eventually gotten over his disappointment that Roz hadn’t hatched for him. It just took longer for him to drop his “elves are superior to humans in every way” rhetoric. He always insisted it added insult to injury when Stiles, a nobody from a small northern village, had become Roscolyn’s Rider instead.

As soon as Stiles found the right key and freed Jackson from his chains, he handed him the guard’s sword, choosing to keep the dagger for himself. Stiles had had a crash course in sword fighting, but he never really took to it like he was supposed to; he usually much preferred a bow or his magic. So it made no sense for him to keep the sword when Jackson literally spent centuries learning to use one. Plus Jackson would never start swinging it like a stick like Stiles was sometimes known to do.

“Where’s Lydia?” Stiles asked. “Is she nearby?”

Jackson shook his head, lips pursed. “We were separated as soon as we got here. They left me to rot in the dark, but I think she . . .” He trailed off.

Stiles nodded curtly, a heavy weight settling in his gut. As princess of the elves and a key member of the Varden, she would be a prime candidate to practice their interrogation techniques. Torture, he figured.

The two of them started searching the cells nearby. Jackson would stand guard, straining his pointed ears to listen inside each cell for movement while Stiles unlocked the doors to see for sure. They got through half a dozen without finding anyone, and Stiles was having a hard time hiding his frustration. This was taking too long.

Jackson stiffened. “We’re about to have company,” he hissed. He took up a defensive stance facing a door larger than the ones leading to the cells.

Stiles cursed under his breath. It didn’t look like Lydia was in this part of the prison at all, and Stiles and Jackson weren’t equipped to fight the whole fortress on their own. The plan was to get in, get out, and fly away. He’d really been relying on speed and surprise.

Stiles whirled around, looking for something he can use besides a puny dagger, when he saw it. Set off in a small alcove was another door, hidden from the rest of the hallway until he was nearly right up against it. Unlike the iron cell doors around them, this one had no window, was made of some heavy wood, and painted a deep red. 

Stiles paused. He’d seen this door before. In a series of dreams that were too vivid to be random. When, in Lydia’s desperation, she’d found a way to scry directly into his mind and let them know that she and Jackson were in trouble in the first place. She had hidden the torture from him in the few lucid messages she could get to him, but a few images had made it through.

He had no doubt now that she was somewhere behind this door.

Stiles turned to call Jackson over, when the rattle and scrape of a door hinge cut through what he was about to say. At the other end of the hall, four soldiers entered the prison block. They were strolling casually; one was eating a sandwich while two were chatting heatedly, and as soon as they fully emerged, they all froze in the doorway. Clearly they didn’t expect to find Stiles and Jackson out of their cells and walking about.

Jackson didn’t hesitate. With a small yell, he swung the sword at the soldiers closest to him, and despite their startled appearance, two barely got their swords out in time to block his attack.

Fighting broke out. Jackson was closer and engaging three soldiers at once. Stiles stepped forward to help in whatever way he could, but Jackson, in the true fighting style of an elf, was swinging wide in the narrow hallway, and it wouldn’t help to distract him from behind.

The fourth guy, who’d had the sandwich, was inching back the way they’d come, readying to take off running.

“We can’t let him sound the alarm!” Stiles called out. 

Jackson realized what was happening and swore in the ancient language. He tried to change tactics to quickly overpower the three guys on him, but he only managed for two to pivot around and start crowding him back against one of the cell doors.

The third guy slid past and came right at Stiles.

“Oh no you don’t,” Stiles said, raising his dagger to fight. He barely heard Jackson’s snarl as the elf battled the two remaining soldiers.

Stiles rolled out of the way of his soldier’s first swing and then parried the second with the dagger. The clash of metal against metal reverberated painfully up his arm, and he realized that he needed to make this fight short. The short blade of his dagger wasn’t effectively absorbing the blows of the guy’s sword, meaning each swing he blocked hit him harder than he was used to. Any blow from the soldier could send the dagger flying out of his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jackson finally subdue one and then the other of his soldiers, and the brief surge of triumph distracted Stiles just long enough for his guy to swing from the left and throw off his rhythm. The blade came right at him.

Stiles flailed back and slipped out the first thing that came to his mind: “ _Jierda_.”

The soldier flew backwards, sword clattering out of his hand. He landed near Jackson, dazed, and the elf swiftly dispatched him with a hard knock on the head.

Stiles stood in the middle of the hall, stunned. “Guess my magic’s coming back.” He felt around his mind and knew he wasn’t quite up to his usual strength, and most words he knew were still beyond him. But even access to the simple stuff was definitely progress.

He threw a questioning glance to Jackson, who shook his head. He was still recovering from weeks without access to his power. It would be a while yet before he could use more than his sword skills to fight.

In the meantime, the fourth soldier’s escape meant that things were about to get real messy real quick. It might be the stress, but he swore he could already hear the clatter of armor approaching. “Come on,” Stiles beckoned. “I think I know where to find Lydia.”

He and Jackson pushed through the red door, and if anything, the hallway beyond was better lit than the prison block they came from. Stiles definitely remembered this hallway from his dreams projected by Lydia. He had no doubts that she was down here somewhere. 

The hallway sloped up and led to stairs, and Stiles and Jackson climbed, hopeful that it meant that the prison block had multiple entrances they might escape through rather than have to fight the whole fortress back the way they’d come. The air was becoming fresher, and the walls were still stone, but they had carved details and were interrupted with the odd curtain or tapestry. So far they hadn’t come across any doors leading elsewhere.

Partway through the hall, Jackson stiffened at something Stiles couldn’t hear then surged ahead toward the only other door in the place. 

Stiles tensed, readying himself for another fight. But when Jackson started pounding on the door calling Lydia’s name, he knew that he hadn’t sensed anyone else nearby.

By the time Stiles joined him with the guard’s ring of keys, Jackson had already practically broken the door down with his inhuman strength. He pushed his way into the room beyond, followed closely by Stiles.

This room wasn’t just another cell. It was circular, well-lit from several high windows, and large. Stiles could count at least three other doors interspersed in the round wall. At first all he saw were cabinets and shelves packed with bottles of all shapes and sizes. Some strange, vaguely scientific instruments were set out on tables lining one wall, but the air was suffused with the sour taste of dark magic. Frankly, it reminded him of the stench that followed the Ra’zac everywhere the pair went.

But Jackson didn’t hover by the door like Stiles. He had immediately rushed to a large table set near the strange instruments, where a small figure lay. Stiles caught a flash of red hair between Jackson’s arms, and his stomach turned in knots. What did they do to her in this room?

As he got closer, he saw Jackson leaning over her still form with his palm resting gently on her forehead. His eyes were clenched shut in concentration, and he was mumbling words under his breath. Stiles couldn’t fully hear what he was saying, but he recognized the rhythm of the ancient language spewing forth from a native speaker’s lips. Jackson, weakened as he was, was attempting to reach into Lydia’s consciousness and pull her out.

Stiles approached and pressed a comforting hand each on Jackson’s shoulder and Lydia’s limp forearm. He himself was too weak to consciously redirect his power to help, but if Jackson could take even a little bit, he was willing to offer it up. He prayed that they hadn’t arrived too late to save her.

After a few agonizing moments, Stiles felt a shift in the air around them, and Lydia’s expression changed, brow furrowing. She inhaled sharply, and then her eyes slowly fluttered open. 

Stiles heard Jackson’s relieved sigh, and he could feel the pinpricks of tears emerging. “Oh thank goodness.”

Jackson leaned down, pressing his forehead against Lydia’s, breathing in her scent. “I’m so sorry, Highness. I wasn’t there,” he whispered brokenly.

Stiles stepped away to let them have their private moment. He started moving tables to barricade the door he and Jackson had come through. Once that soldier manages to find reinforcements, a whole platoon would probably start following where they went from the cell block. Escape would have to be through one of the other options in the room. 

Stiles paused his efforts when he heard Lydia’s imperious voice call out, “Stilinski, why the hell are you here?”

Stiles scoffed and went over to his friend. “Saving your life, of course,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m only in it for the thanks.”

Lydia didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. “I’ll not thank you if you or Roscolyn gets hurt. Together you’re the Varden’s last hope. You’re too important, and we’re replaceable.”

Stiles scowled. He hated whenever she said things like that. Lydia wasn’t replaceable. Not to him. Or to Roz. 

“How do you think I felt when you both threw yourselves into danger just for some rumor?” he said quietly. “Did you even find the dragon egg? What was it that you said about it? That any sacrifice was worth it if you could save just one more dragon?” He met her gaze dead on, and for once she faltered. “And then you sent me those dreams when you were captured. I panicked.” His voice broke.

Lydia’s face softened, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t mean to reach out to you like that.”

Stiles hunched in on himself. “Yeah, I could tell.” 

They sat in silence for several moments until Lydia gently bumped his shoulder with hers. Stiles leaned into the touch, taking the gesture for the peace offering it was. He sighed deeply.

“So what’s the plan?” Lydia asked finally. “You and Roscolyn always have a plan.”

Stiles straightened then explained their objective. First he was to infiltrate the middle of the fortress. Check. Then he had to locate Jackson and Lydia and get them out of wherever they were being held. Check and check. Next came the smash and grab. Stiles had to get them on top of the parapet near the south tower. He would signal Roz—once he regained full use of his magic, that is—and she and Scott would swoop in, distract the soldiers, and use her skyward advantage to collect the three of them and fly like their very lives depended on it.

It was simple, but sometimes the simple plans worked the best. There were fewer steps that could go wrong.

Judging by Lydia and Jackson’s expressions, though, the two elves weren’t exactly impressed. Lydia started into a tirade of what all exactly could go wrong, when there was a loud banging on the door that led to the prison block. Even Stiles’s human ears could pick up on the clang of weapons and the shouting of soldiers beating against the makeshift barricade. It was only a matter of time before they broke through or sent a squadron to cut them off from a different direction. They needed to find a way out. Fast.

Lydia indicated that the people who interrogated her usually came from two other doors, and Stiles and Jackson each ran to one. The soldiers’ thuds against the cell block door became louder and more rhythmic; they must have picked up a battering ram or something.

Stiles tamped down the imminent danger and inched his door open a crack, not sure what the reception would be on the other side. The passage beyond must have been in a more well-traveled part of the fortress. The hallway was wide and went on around a curve, but he didn’t see anybody out there.

“This way,” Jackson called out, swinging his door fully open. “No sign of movement, and I see stairs leading up and to the south.”

“It’s our best bet,” Lydia agreed, hurrying to join him.

Stiles turned, starting to close his door and follow his friends, when a subtle shift of movement caught the corner of his eye. He startled, not sure he could believe what he just saw. “No. It couldn’t be,” he whispered.

“Stiles, let’s go!” Lydia called.

But it was too late. Stiles flung his door open completely and rushed into the hall beyond. Lydia moved as if to stop him, when the sound of splintering wood had Jackson pulling her protectively toward him. The door to the cell block had finally buckled, and soldiers were starting to worm their way into the room. There were dozens of them.

They had no choice but to run. Jackson pulled a protesting Lydia after him, growling about making Stiles pay for this if they got out of there alive. He slammed the door closed and locked. They just had to pray that Stiles would meet up with them near the south tower like they planned.

Meanwhile, Stiles jogged through an empty hallway as if in a daze. He felt his brain buzzing, like it was running pathways and scenarios a million times a minute. There are times when you witness something you know to be impossible, when you’re not sure if the truth is wonderful or terrible all at the same time. He felt compelled to follow, as if finding out for himself would keep the unimaginable pain at bay or rip open a new raw wound in his heart.

Just like at the door, it started with a slight movement here and there. A swish of fabric just turning the next corner. But as he followed, he saw more. The rustle of dark hair or a brief glimpse of broad shoulders silhouetted against a window.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, Stiles knew he shouldn’t be blindly following some figure in an enemy stronghold. Their path took them up several flights of stairs. He knew he was going up. But he had the niggling sensation that they weren’t approaching the south tower like he wanted.

But his thoughts were consumed with the impossible scenario before him. He couldn’t let it go. He had to see for sure. Because the alternative was not to know, and that was just impossible for him at the moment.

He didn’t encounter any soldiers. He didn’t run into any traps. Each turn in the path took them higher and higher up. Stiles was chasing this figure, and he could hardly breathe, choking on the words he so desperately wanted to call out. _Stop! Turn around and let me see you_.

Finally, the sound of a door swinging open came from ahead, and the stairway flooded with bright sunlight. Heedless of the potential danger, Stiles squinted against the brightness and plunged into the open air.

They were at the top of one of the towers. Judging by the sun that had started inching toward the horizon, it wasn’t the south tower but the eastern one instead, the tallest in the fortress. Wind whipped up around Stiles as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and the door he came through fell shut behind him.

Standing alone on the tower roof was the figure he chased. The dips of his shoulders. The arch of his neck. The soft black hair billowing steadily in the breeze. It was all so achingly familiar, a vision Stiles thought he would never see again.

“Derek. Is it really you?” he whispered. If this turned out to be some cruel illusion, he wasn’t sure he could survive the heartbreak again.

Derek stood tall and still. His face was gaunt, his hair a little too long, but his voice was the same. Soft like Stiles remembered. “Yes. It’s me.”

Stiles’s breath caught, and before he knew it, the dagger slipped between his loose fingers to the floor. He launched himself forward. Wrapping long arms around broad shoulders. Burrowing his face in that familiar neck. The buzzing in his mind grew stronger; he started to recognize it as his mental connection to the rest of the world. Further proof that his magic was returning.

Rough hands reached up to encircle his back, and Stiles leaned into the painfully familiar touch. “You were dead,” Stiles babbled into Derek’s shoulder. “There was all that blood. I tried to scry for you, but all I saw was darkness. We thought you were dead.”

Derek stroked his back, releasing a quiet, soothing sound. The buzzing in Stiles’s head only got louder. He could start to pick out Roz’s consciousness touching on his own. She couldn’t break through his drugged senses yet, but he could feel a small touch of her alarm. He tried to convey some of his feelings through the limited channel. He’d found Derek. Derek wasn’t dead somehow, and they’d found each other. He must have been captured by the king’s soldiers and hauled off to be imprisoned in this fortress.

But where had he been held? How did he escape?

Stiles tried to break off the hug so he could take in Derek’s features, but Derek held on tightly as if afraid to let Stiles go. 

“I was held in darkness for so long,” Derek said quietly against his temple. “But now you’re here, and there’s only one thing left.” He leaned his head to whisper directly into Stiles’s ear, “ _Malthinae_.”

Stiles felt the magic take hold immediately. His feet became heavy, weighted down with invisible rocks, and he couldn’t move them. He immediately straightened and tried to push himself out of Derek’s hold, but he wouldn’t let go. Instead of warmth and comfort, the arms around him became a caging grip.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped. He managed to angle his head away to look back at Derek. His face was impassive, hardened, resolute. “Derek, what are you doing?”

“I was captured, held in complete darkness for so long, and you weren’t coming.” Derek’s words cut like a knife, but there was no anger in his tone. Only sadness. “When King Gerard sets his sights on you, you break eventually. Everyone does.”

“Derek, stop this,” Stiles pleaded. He still struggled in his grip, but with his feet immovable below him, he could get no leverage. “We can get you out of here. Just come with us back to the Varden.”

Derek scoffed. “Just another set of Argents trying to take control of Beacon. No, it’s too late. Gerard has something on me.”

“Whatever it is, we can deal with it later.” A sudden spike in Roz’s alarm made Stiles a little dizzy. He pushed down the bile that rose to his throat.

“He has my true name, Stiles,” Derek said. “And now there’s no way he will ever let me go.”

Stiles wanted to ask why, what could possibly have changed in the short months since Derek disappeared. But Derek’s grip around his rib cage was starting to hurt, and he was battling against both his own panic and ever-increasingly Roz’s.

Then Stiles started to hear it, the sound of beating wings over the high wind. Both relief and panic surged within him as he thought of Roz. She would be able to help, but he didn’t want Derek to use him against her. He almost shouted at her to stay away since their weak mental link was still hit or miss, but when the large scaly head rose over the tower, followed by a body and wings that partially blocked out the setting sun, it wasn’t the familiar pale blue of Roscolyn’s hide. Instead, the scales were bright red, shining in the early evening.

Stiles’s heart sank as he took in the sight of the large red dragon. There was only one thing that would guarantee Gerard’s grip on Derek’s life. The king had another dragon egg after all. It had been here the whole time. And it had hatched for Derek.

“Stiles, meet Alpha,” Derek said mechanically. “We are kindred creatures, both born into service to the king. And now, bound together, he and I are owned body and soul by our true names.”

Stiles gazed into the green-hazel eyes of the man he loves, his heart plummeting into a bitter weight of despair in his stomach. 

Derek stared back, his expression broken. “I’ve been ordered to capture you and Roscolyn. I can’t disobey. I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. This was supposed to be his Derek. Derek, who with fierce brightness in his eyes admitted his privileged upbringing in the king’s court then cursed it for the abuse it became. Derek, who fought with the precision and viciousness of a pack of wolves to protect Stiles and Roz from danger. Derek, who lovingly held him in the moonlight, stealing brief, tender moments while on the run in the wilderness.

But here he stood. Broken. Forced to betray those he once called friends. And Stiles was forced to stand by helplessly as Derek’s embrace that he once cried himself to sleep missing became a waking nightmare. 

They stood there on that tower, locked in each other’s arms as Derek explained exactly how his imprisonment changed as soon as Alpha’s egg hatched for him. How King Gerard personally tutored him in the art of magic, tortured them if they resisted, forced them to take on a host of magical shortcuts to increase Derek’s power and to grow Alpha faster until the king was convinced that they would bring him his next prize.

Stiles listened to all of this, horrified. He wanted Roz to cut their losses and leave with Lydia, Jackson, and Scott, but even if he could fully argue with her now, she would never leave him behind. Instead, she flew past the tower, driving too close for comfort. Stiles felt Derek shift around him, could almost see his lips start to form words in the ancient language, and he knew that he was about to make a move against her. Stiles remembered the crushing pain he felt seeing the Ra’zac wrap her in chains, and he’d sworn he’d never see that happen again.

So he did something desperate.

Derek stood stock still, the words dying before they could form. He slowly lowered his head to look at Stiles in shock.

In his desperation, Stiles had managed to free one arm enough to reach up and caress Derek’s face like he used to during their most tender moments. The gentle touch was just enough to break through the defenses around Derek’s mind, and Stiles opened his own in the most vulnerable way as he directly connected their minds.

He shared their best memories together. 

The joy he’d felt when he found a way to draw water from the ground, meaning they could cross the desert to the Varden. Derek had been there, looking impressed and a little awed. 

How cool Derek was when he came to the rescue when the Ra’zac had caught them just outside Dras-Leona. Not only had he saved his, Roz’s, and Scott’s lives that night, he’d also looked so raw when he humbly asked to travel with them from that point on.

The camaraderie they’d shared fighting side by side during the Urgal invasion, when Allison had finally considered Derek a friend rather than foe. Their movements were in sync and natural, like they were always meant to be near each other.

Stiles poured all of his feelings into the mental connection. It wasn’t just the high points or the bright victories. There was so much in the loving glances, the warm comfort when they held each other’s hands, and the overall safety he always felt at Derek’s side.

By the end of it, tears were streaming down Derek’s face. He stood there unmoving, and Stiles soon felt the magic holding him in place fade to nothing. Soon he could pry himself from Derek’s arms.

Before Stiles pulled his hand from Derek’s cheek, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss against his temple. “ _Eka ástar ono_ ,” Stiles whispered in the ancient language. _I love you_. “I will come back, and I will find a way to break you out of Gerard’s hold.”

Derek’s face crumpled. “You have to stay away from me. Because next time, I won’t have the strength to disobey orders again.”

Stiles smiled sadly, eyes glistening, then pulled away. Before he could dwell too long on the pain it caused to be without Derek once again, he ran off the side of the tower and plummeted into thin air. He was in a few seconds of free fall before a familiar pale blue blur cut toward him and snatched him out of the sky.

Roscolyn, already overburdened carrying Lydia, Jackson, and Scott on her back, cradled Stiles protectively against her scaly belly between her front claws. Then she angled into the sunset and flew toward the horizon and out of that miserable place.

Stiles craned his neck to glance back at the tower that was quickly receding into the distance. He could just make out Derek’s hunched form standing next to the red dragon, who still had the gangly proportions he remembered from when Roz was juvenile. But Alpha was so much larger than Roz had been back then. Forced to grow up way too soon. Stiles’s heart plummeted as he realized that Derek was never allowed his childhood innocence either. The dragon and Rider really were a fated pair.

As his magic fully returned, so did his mental link with Roz, and she shared the burden of his pain. _I’m so sorry, little one_ , she said gently.

Stiles nodded curtly, unable to trust his voice right then. He’d found Derek. And then he’d lost him all over again.

But this time he knew Derek was alive, and that meant all was not lost. He _will_ find a way to save Derek and Alpha. No matter what. One day they will be free.

**Author's Note:**

> My unread copy of The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm is not-so-silently judging me from the bookshelf. Is this a sign that it needs to jump to the top of my TBR pile?


End file.
